


Of Hearth and Home

by orphan_account



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology, Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Greek Mythology, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-16
Updated: 2014-05-16
Packaged: 2018-01-24 23:36:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1621100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Les Amis fight, Courfeyrac prays, and Hestia is moved to help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Hearth and Home

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Silence Is the Speech of Love](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1150355) by [lady_ragnell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_ragnell/pseuds/lady_ragnell). 



> This was heavily inspired by the universe of [lady_ragnell's amazing work](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1150355), but not compliant with the events of that fic whatsoever. It's seriously amazing and you should stop whatever you're doing and read it right now.
> 
> Disclaimer: I wrote in an hour and only reviewed it cursorily. I hope you enjoy it anyway.
> 
> You can find me on tumblr [here.](bonesjim.tumblr.com)

If Hestia had favorites (and she doesn’t, if only because she’s learned from experience that god-blessed doesn’t always mean happy or even alive), she would undeniably choose Courfeyrac. But, since she very emphatically does _not_ have favorites, she merely holds a certain fondness for the human in the quiet of her hearth. Nowadays, her little temple doesn’t get many visitors; people are far more likely to offer prayers to Aphrodite and Zeus than to spiteless little Hestia, goddess of hearth and home. She has a few priests and priestesses that stop in to check for offerings and tithes, but mostly her little temple sits warm but empty, tucked away in the small, rabbit-warren streets of Paris.

Courfeyrac is the one exception. He comes in at least once a week, often more, to kneel at her altar and pray. His tithes are always scavenged from friends; a thin slip of poetry-scrawled paper, a political pamphlet, a half-finished sketch on a bar napkin. Once he brought in a vanilla cupcake, a partially melted candle still perched on top. Even when he doesn’t show up for prayer, Hestia still feels the tingling burn of incense offered in her name, coupled with the ethereal flash of Courfeyrac’s laugh in the back of her mind. What Hestia likes best about Courfeyrac, though, is his prayers. He prays for his home and his family often enough, but these prayers are invariably coupled with an offering of thanks and the memory of smiling faces clustered around tables, of comforting hands and the soothing thrush of breath and scattered laughter. Not many people prayer to Hestia anymore and even fewer pray in gratitude. It makes sense, in a way- in all her years, Hestia has never cast a curse, in anger or in jealousy. People want more than she has to offer, romance and success and wisdom. All too often, she reflects, a warm home and a happy heart fall to the wayside.

oOo

Courfeyrac nearly always comes to her happy. It’s his natural disposition. He comes and thanks her for her help, gives stories and tithes from his friends in offering, and asks only for continued happiness. That’s why it’s so startling when he enters her temple, shrugging off a rain-soaked sweatshirt, and drops to his knees looking utterly miserable.

“Hello, Hestia,” he begins, as he always does, but the familiar curve of a smile around her name is gone, as is the usual bright flash of contentment in his eyes. “I didn’t bring any offerings today, I’m sorry, but I had to get out of there, they were so angry, I’ve never seen them that angry, Enjolras looked like he was going to _explode_ and R just kept pushing and then Eponine got involved and, just, just-.”

His head slumps forward, rainwater dripping from the ends of his normally-curly hair, now plastered against his skull. “Everyone expects me to mediate, and I don’t mind at all, of course not, I love when we’re all together in the Musain and everyone’s happy and getting along, but sometimes I just can’t deal with it, you understand?” He looks up at her image above the altar, rueful smile on his face. (The image looks nothing like her; it’s an older, matronly, well-put-together woman, tall and smiling and light. Hestia almost always manifests as a child, and prefers a scraggly and care-worn look; it’s the appearance most similar to that of the people who pray to her most often.)

Courfeyrac kneels at the altar for a while before he concludes his prayer (“-just let them figure it out, okay?”) and then he leaves in a swirl of wind and rainwater. Hestia watches the door for a long moment before she focuses her attention elsewhere.

oOo

Much to her dismay, Courfeyrac doesn’t return for nearly a week, and when he finally appears in the entrance to her temple, he looks just as sad as he did before. He offers her flowers, which would be nice if it weren’t a traditional, impersonal tithing gift so far removed from his usual eccentric trinkets. He looks drawn, unhappy, with dark circles under his usually bright eyes and his whole body pulled taut and tense. He takes a breath, and Hestia doesn’t miss the way it shudders through his teeth.

“It’s terrible, it’s so fucking terrible, they’re still fighting and now Combeferre’s avoiding me and I think he knows about how I feel and Marius found this girl and Eponine is angry and Jehan’s got himself involved with some dangerous fucker and I don’t know what to do, everything’s just falling apart and nothing I can do even begins to help! They even cancelled the meeting yesterday, that’s never happened before! What if no one ever makes up and I lose the best friends I’ve ever had? I can’t-“

And here Courfeyrac cuts himself off with a strangled sob, fists clenched so hard his nails are cutting into his palms. It takes him a full minute to get himself under control, at which point he buries his face in his hands and says shakily, “And I forgot, shit, hello, Hestia.”

It takes him nearly an hour to talk it all out to her, how Enjolras and Grantaire are in love but think it’s hate, how Eponine loves Marius even though he has no idea and has been blabbering on about Cosette for days, about Jehan and his new boyfriend Montparnasse who is _terrible,_ about how Courfeyrac’s been in love with Combeferre for years and now Combeferre has found out and he’s ruined everything.

Hestia is and has always been perplexed by romantic love. It’s not something she’s ever experienced or, indeed, ever wanted to experience. She’s the goddess of the home, of friendship and family and trust, and for the life of her she can’t see the appeal of romantic love, especially given how much damage it’s caused over the eons. She doesn’t understand it and doesn’t want to, but now it’s hurting Courfeyrac, the first human to worship her with such devotion in decades. Later that night, after he leaves, she manifests outside Aphrodite’s temple, much larger and busier than her own.

She takes the appearance of a strapping, arrogant young man, the sort of person who visits Aphrodite’s temple in lust and buries the deeper desire for love under swagger and charm. She pushed her way through the bumping, clamoring crowd until she reaches the altar, where she kneels and sends a silent prayer to Aphrodite, seeking audience. A few short minutes later, a priest points her to a private room, where a striking Arab woman sits languidly on the bed. It isn’t a form Hestia is familiar with, but she recognizes Aphrodite instantly; such is a gift of the gods.

“What brings the goddess Hestia, patron of hearth and home, to my lowly temple?” Aphrodite asks with a broad smile.

“You know why,” Hestia replies, because it’s true. “Your love clashes with mine, and normally I allow it, for I cannot pretend to understand its ways, but it has hurt on who worships me and I want that it stop.”

“Mortals are fickle, and I cannot help the way they fall in and out of love as easily as breath. I haven’t interfered with your worshipper; it is in their nature for humans to hurt one another,” Aphrodite responds easily.

“That may be true, but I do not ask for you to grant love falsely, or even remove it; I only ask that you grant clarity. After all,” Hestia says, catching the thoughtful gleam to Aphrodite’s expression, “Who enjoys a tale of happily-ever-after more than you, rare as it may be? From Courfeyrac’s prayers, I’ve gathered at least two of his hearth worship you. Surely a favor to help your family and your devotees besides is not such a hardship.” Aphrodite regards her thoughtfully for a moment, before breaking into a grin and hugging her tightly. “Very well, Hestia. I grant you your favor, on the condition that you visit more often. Most of the pantheon has little time for one another, but somehow I feel the goddess of family will be more open to interaction. I worry, you all alone in that little temple, with only a few worshippers to offer you their tithes.”

oOo

Three days later, Courfeyrac bursts in, clutching scraps of paper to his chest. “Hello, Hestia!”

He lays it out before her altar, poetry and sketches and receipts and notes, before sitting back on his heels and tilting his head back. “Everything’s good again, everyone’s _happy._ Combeferre was avoiding me because he thought I found out about _him_ liking _me,_ do you see, and Enjolras and Grantaire have finally stopped fighting and Jehan’s left Montparnasse and we’re having meetings again starting tomorrow and I’m just so happy, I feel like I could burst, it’s such a relief- (and here he trails off in breathless laughter). Thank you for your assistance, goddess, thank you _thank you”_

Hestia smiles to herself and settles to listen to his offered stories and hopes.

oOo

She knows it’s a bad idea, but she can’t help but be curious, so the next night she manifests as a young woman, unobtrusive and plain, and visits the Musain. She enters to see Courfeyrac’s Les Amis clustered around tables in the back, attention held by a fiery blond man speaking passionately at the back- Enjolras, then. Next to him, a dark haired man twirls a pencil in his fingers and comments occasionally, eyes bright and smirking- Grantaire. She sees the copper-haired poet, Jehan, and a couple that has to be Cosette and Marius, and Eponine and Feuilly and Bahorel and Joly and Bossuet, and, sitting directly at Enjolras’s right, Courfeyrac and a sandy-haired man in glasses who must be Combeferre. The scene is content and warm, and the familiar tingle at the back of her mind means that Courfeyrac thinks so to and is thanking her for it. The feeling captures her attention for a moment, and in the interval she lets some of her own happiness bless the café; the lights shine a little warmer, the drinks taste a little better, a sense of happiness settles around the occupants. No one seems to notice, save Courfeyrac, who looks around curiously for a moment before he spots her, still standing in the doorway. His eyes widen comically, going still, and Combeferre leans in with concern. She puts a finger to her lips, winking, and heads back out into the streets of Paris, walking happily back toward the comfort of her temple.


End file.
